


Yesterday Remaining

by MiaSchwarz



Series: The Mystery of the Growing Tree – A Deduction of Developments [4]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But it might still take a while, Cabin Pressure - Freeform, Established Martin Crieff/Douglas Richardson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Have a look at my other stories instead :), Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Martin Crieff is a Holmes, More Fluff, Multi, Other, STILL IN PROGRESS, Sherlock AU, Sherlock BBC AU, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, marlas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaSchwarz/pseuds/MiaSchwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At some times even the great Sherlock Holmes and his faithfull blogger John Watson just enjoy an uneventful, ordinary day of a family's home. And some unexpected adventures may turn out as a reminder of the pleasures a boring day contains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calm before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, be prepared, this was planned as a one-shot, maybe with 1.000 words or so. Now it moves on and is not ready yet, but the plot and the ending are already clear. Comments, critics and sharp eyes for mistakes are highly welcome. Please give a note, if you like or dislike something, it may be important for the writer, thank you!

A deep sigh escaped Sherlock when he began to stretch his long limbs. It had been a rather unspectacular, very uneventful day, but John was not a bit surprised anymore to find his husband calm and relaxed in the sitting room. The man stood there, clothed in dark gray jogging pants he used for exercises, because they had an elastic band at the end of each trouser to prevent slipping anywhere. This was combined with a well worn but nonetheless well fitting shirt, which was long enough to be decently covering every part of the posh figure. Of course on top of this the tall man featured a messy mop of unruly dark curls and naked feet. 

While John waited a moment before leaving into the garden, he rested his look on the remarkable figure standing relaxed in front of the large windows leading to the pond outside at this very pleasant late afternoon during spring. Sherlock sighed again and let his arms glide down from over his head in a great bowing movement to relax them along his torso. His eyes were closed in peaceful concentration, maybe Sherlock was planning the following choreography of Yoga, John mused. He smiled to himself and left his man alone for the sake of fighting off the never tiring efforts of weeds in their garden instead of having a nice long look at the elegant figure contorting itself elegantly. Now it was John who sighed, but he was determined, straightened his back and armed himself resolutely with his hat and a rake to face his mission in their mature forest city garden, to make it a little less weedy so that new plants could get their chances of sunlight.

Of course the great Sherlock Holmes could not be bothered with digging nasty plants out of the soil granted. Especially after one noteworthy gardening during midnight where the usually feline graced Sherlock managed to knock over one of the beehives and ended in an antiseptic bath for mostly the whole day labouring a sulk of historical magnitude about more than a hundred of stings, which the beloved insects where alert enough to prefer to place mostly on the back of the embarrassed scientist.

So not only because of adventures like this John was already more than pleased and content by now, that his husband, though being a messy flatmate during their early years at Bakerstreet, had developed a vigorous routine during his sleepless nights that contained doing the chores in their house in Bakers Alley. He suspected once a hint, that his revolting husband had found his secretly hidden domestic side, which Sherlock deemed to wave down as ridiculous, because it was just a very useful way to entertain his transport with mundane and profane activities for having a nice long thinking at night. He insisted that it helped his body to get tired and the constant repetition of motions where rather stimulating, just like practising Yoga.

May it as it be, John would be out of his mind to complain about the former detective finding nocturnal pleasure and mental stimulation in laundry and housework and rearranging the whole interior after regularly changing patterns, when it was much less destructive than shooting at walls or running questionable experiments with even more questionable chemical items. And there was definitely nothing to complain about with a healthy brain, when every morning his incredible husband was found sound asleep in the small hours and also a remarkable tidy and strictly neat house at the same time. Although John had to admit, it sometimes bordered dangerously to annoyance for everyone, whose items had fallen victim to the meticulous nocturnal clearances or who was again searching for the new place of regular used kitchen tools or toilet items.

After this lunatic attacks of excessive housworking Sherlock tends to sleep until the late morning, what gives John a quiet time to care of his own routine, look after their children and leave for his relaxed walk to the clinic. Sherlock would rise from the dead sometime around midday for his coffee (and sometimes a secret smoke), which was followed by different diversions, which amused John to no end because of their usualness, like admiring his nightly work or bustling around the house for secretly hidden things of the members of the Holmes and Watson household so he could mock one of them during dinner or plugging his violin or firing countless messages after his husband and their offspring and sometimes even his elder brother, just for good measure, or some proper thinking stretched out on his sofa while always sipping at his constantly refilled cup of tea until he mentions the signs of his transport telling the brain that an empty stomach was in need of nourishment soon.

 

So when John returned early in the afternoon Sherlock was more often than not engaged in cooking lunch and simultaneously preparing dinner as well as browsing new inspirations for new experiments. And like any pleasant day in Bakers Alley went on, the couple spends a fine amount of time with eating and Sherlock deducing John´s patients (what serves to always light up John´s mood, Sherlock knew of course) and John admiring his husband´s multitasking skills (which pleased the former detective immensely, John found out by surprise) or some mutual teasing about snivelling, pity demanding patients or the simple pleasures of home-makers, but always lead to a seated, contend, lazy snoozing together before the children came home eventually.

And maybe this particular day might have gone on like every other rather unspectacular, very uneventful day for John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and their bunch of children. But when John left for the weeds and Sherlock contently dived into his mind doing his secret performance for John, the day abruptly turned into one of those exciting days, the couple thought to be completely over since The Job ended eventually and the children became reasonable more independent. That was until Sherlock was crucially distracted in his inspirational meditation by the annoyingly persistent use of the doorbell some unexpected subject, who dared to deem it´s matters important enough to plague him with, thought was still urgently necessary although Sherlock used to inform his unpreventable appearance as well as his rising irritation by shouting insights of the upcoming doom arousing at the soon to be opened door to reveal the unknown disruptor who …

… Who was one very puzzled looking, slightly sunburned, somehow unfamiliar different appearing Martin Aldrich Holmes Crieff. He was wearing his uniform, which looked straight, but was stained mysteriously (Sherlock made a memo in his mind chart to take a sample soon) and seemed somehow neat but carelessly put on. Something about his „transport“, especially his head with it´s perfectly placed hat, was off as well. He seemed a little bit slow to catch up first, though the dazed look changed into the usual intensive observative impression rapidly. But Sherlock couldn't quite point the off-thing now, when his mind was buzzing with deductions and questions and … worry. Definitely rising worry. Martin´s expression morphed slowly from confused to inquiring, which must be shown on his own face first and started to mirror in the younger man´s face then, Sherlock mused. The smooth sound from the engine of a leaving black car made the two brothers turn their heads to watch it driving slowly out of sight.

„Sherlock?“

He turned his sight off the empty Alley back and down to the ginger pilot standing in front of him. He was witnessing the process of emotions from worry over fear into panic showing in the impressive face of his younger sibling, realizing with some amount of horror the thin line of his mouth and his reddened eyes, pupils blown white and increasingly watery, his brows creased with sorrow leaving deep lines across his forehead, a fine perspiration arise at his hairline … his hair! With a mixture of surprise and confusion Sherlock finally mentioned the off in the Captain´s appearance.

„What … why … why did Mycroft's staff … why am I here?“

Martin tried hard to fight his panic. He remained upright and stiff, hands fisted tightly, trying to stay as prominent and resolutely like his older brothers used to naturally. But his head was tilted slightly, he looked inquisitively at Sherlock and stammered his question due to swallowing down his distress in lack of his own memory. Sherlock privately was no less stressed himself and it did not help to have his highly observing mind firing off deductions and conclusions about the man who seemed to be unaware of his actual situation. But Martin was more than intelligent enough to observe and think for himself though. And he rightly came to the late but sudden conclusion, that something was very wrong and.

Sherlock checked into action, there was no time now for him being overwhelmed bis his emotions when there where more important things to do like helping his brother prevent a severe panic-attack. Sherlock Holmes may not be a hero in dealing with his own emotions, but he was a master in reading other people and treat their distress in any way. He switched right into the observing, problem solving sleuth and a rightful problem was coming up in the entry of Bakers Alley in the form of an Airline Captain, with some kind of amnesia, who was now increasingly nervous and shaking. Before he could formulate another question Sherlock took one of his hands and led him into the corridor. He closed the front door and when he turned around to ask a first question of his own, Martin was frozen in front of the mirror. He had taken his head off and was staring at his reflection with pure horror.

„Sherlock? I … I … again?“

Martin turned his view to his older brother for an answer, many answers in fact, tears inevitably filling his eyes, his face contorted in a mask of misery and embarrassment. And disappointment, Sherlock mentioned with guaranty. He looked at the young pilot and couldn’t help to feel very sad and incapable of changing the truth.

“Yes, Martin, it very much seems like that. I am sorry.”

There was no force that could stop Martin from crying. His head was bowed and he stood sobbing quietly in the corridor, still holding his hat with both hands in front of his chest. If asked Sherlock would find no words to describe the sorrow he felt for his brother at that moment. But he was far from caring, because he silently went to the weeping figure instead. He sighed and loosened Martin´s hat from his fingers to place it at the wardrobe. As soon as he lost the solid form of the hat, Martin buried himself in Sherlock´s embrace, pressing his face into his brother´s neck and clinging to his torso. Sherlock closed his eyes and hugged right back, offering as much comfort and safety as possible.

“Oh Martin.”


	2. Assault and Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate meassures are in need!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, this is a short one, so if there is a great interest, the author might post the third chapter today as well (also because it is not the longest as well), ta!

With a lot of soothing words, calming hugs and gentle nudging in the general direction of the sitting room Sherlock managed to place a seriously weeping Martin on the couch. He draped a blanket around him and fetched a towel from the ground, which should have been of service after the Yoga but was now more useful for the scared bundle of tears on the brown couch to wrench it with shaking hands and burying a red flushed face of embarrassment in it.

Sherlock knelled in front of his younger brother between his legs cupping his face gently with his hands.

“Oh god … I … what … Oh god, Douglas. How will I tell him …?

The sobbing became worse and Martin started to gasp for air.

“Martin, try to calm down. There is always a solution ...”

“He will be utterly disgusted and … and disappointed … and … and … Oh no!”

It broke his heart, seeing his little brother so sad and distressed like this.

“Martin, please, take deep, even breaths. I am very sure, we will …”

“I am such an idiot, no … no matter what I do. I … I always bugger up everything. This is all my fault … so stupid. Oh Sherlock!”

He was clearly driving himself into a solid panic-attack with hyperventilation and all.

“Martin! Listen to me! Now! Calm down and breath deep and slowly. Do you understand me?”

He was rewarded with more sobbing and panic. Desperate measures where in demand. Sherlock rose to his feet abruptly.

“John? John! JOHN!” 

Where was his doctor when needed? He rushed through the basement in search of John, but he got no response. Startled and needful he returned to the sitting room, when his last memory of his husband stroke him. 

“JOHN! JOOOOHN!”

The good doctor nearly fell butt first into the pond by shock with a small shriek, when his unbelievable husband crashed some innocent and harmless afternoon gardening by wrenching open a window like a rocket impact and blaring his name on the top of his lungs to appall any living being in the neighborhood.

His heart was beating rapidly, but with rising irritation John got himself sorted out quickly and blared right back.

“What? WHAT? WHAT!”

“John! For heavens sake, come here this instant! It´s an emergency! Hurry! NOW!”

And he vanished back into the room.

John looked at the empty space with disbelieve, before he took a deep breath and fetched everything he had thrown away hectically during the ambush of his madman. He stomped to the house, more out of a feeling of duty than real urgency to help, having numberless equal alarms still in mind. Finally he entered the house and deposited his dirty boots on the mat.

“Seriously, Sherlock, this will better be very, VERY good, or god help me, I swear I will …” 

He stopped midair while placing his hat on the hat rack when he caught sight of the scene in their sitting room: a hysterically crying Martin on their couch in the strong hold of a soothingly murmuring Sherlock knelling between his legs on the ground in front of him. Martin clung at his brother like he was drowning and Sherlock kept rubbing his back. Still holding his hat John slowly went to the pair, very surprised, all further anger forgotten.

“What happened?”

Sherlock glared at him with impatience.

“What took you so long? Stop asking needless questions! And what are you waiting for? Get your medical kit!“


	3. Care for the Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First things first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, again. But at least it's late as well. Thank you for Kudos and Submitting! The writer loves you!

“Alright! What's going on here? How are you, Martin?”

Without another response John had rushed into the small bathroom for guests to get his medical kit from its shelf. Having an educated guess about the condition of their unexpected visitor, he also fetched some items out of the medicine chest and hurried back into the sitting room. Sherlock had gotten Martin out of his uniform and wrapped tightly into the big blanket. The younger man was sitting on his lab now, his head resting on his shoulder. He was still sobbing violently, but the close physical contact and the calm words of his brother seemed to help him a bit. John left his supplies on the table in front of the couch and went to the windows. He closed the curtains to increase a comforting dimmed environment. He then sat down next to his husband, opened his bag and started his examination.

“Martin, can you look at me, please?”

He checked Martin´s eyes with his ecolight and mentioned the slightly dilated pupils. When he laid back the small light he got his stethoscope to check the pulse.

“He is in shock, John, obviously. He needs medication to calm down before he either falls over or cries himself unconscious.” 

Sherlock huffed. He was still holding the smaller man tight in his arms, nuzzling his nose gently against his temple.

“Yeah, I can see that, smarty-pants. But what am I looking for? And what the heck just happened?”, John grunted back while he searched for the thermometer.

“First things first, John. Martin, please, try to breath with me! In … and … out. We are here with you, everything is safe now. In … and out.”

John felt for Martin´s forehead before he reached for his shaking hands.

“The pupils are dilated, the pulse is quiet high, the body temperature is normal, but the hands are cold though the skin feels damp. Martin, are you on drugs?”

“I … no … I don't know, yes, maybe … but …”

He ended up crying harder again. He covered his face with the towel and buried himself closer to Sherlock, shaking badly.

“Alright, this is what we do. I give you something to calm down, nothing to severe, Diazepam, okay? We will see what to do then, yeah?”

Martin nodded without looking at the doctor and John started to prepare the injection. He took the left arm and rolled the fabric of the shirt up to the biceps. Then he placed the medical cord around the muscles and pulled it tight. He cleared the syringe, sprayed some disinfectant on the skin and placed the needle in a sharp angle at Martin´s armpit. Sherlock sighed in relief when his partner punctuated the needle immediately. John retrieved the syringe carefully before securing it and throwing it into the small bin on the table. Then he disinfected the area again, fetched some small cotton patches and pressed them tightly on the puncture.

“There we are. Bend your arm to avoid bruising. That's a good lad.”

He patted Martin on the shoulder reassuringly and sorted everything back into place with much less hurry, but not without watching closely at his patient.

Martin was still huddled in Sherlock´s lab, leaning heavily against his chest and burying his face into the nook of his neck. He was still shaking in distress, his eyes closed tightly while he clamped the towel with both hands under his nose at his mouth. Sherlock rubbed his chin through the wild curls and shushed the suffering man calmly. He really looked like a mess, the usually picture perfect image of an airline Captain. Without the uniform and his shoes, wrapped into a fluffy blanket, sweaty and snotty and without the hat, revealing a deranged mob of … blonde curls? John blinked once, twice, but no, the remarkable striking thick auburn waves where missing in favor of washed out, mismatched light strands.

“Right”, John sniffed and cleared his throat. Martin hiccuped and blew his nose violently. He searched the towel for remaining dry spots to clean his face as good as possible. His expression was a mixture of sadness and concern when he spoke stuttering.

“I … I am so, so very sorry … Sherlock. This shouldn't have happened. Not … at least not … again. Please … please, don't be mad at me. Please!”

He closed his eyes and Sherlock sighed of the pitiful figure in his arms. He drew him even closer with one arm around his shoulder and cupped his face with the other against his chest. He shushed him and left a gentle peck against the temple of the youngest Holmes.

“No, brother dear, do not be concerned. I am not mad at you, or what you did, or … anything of you at all.”

He pecked him again, then he leaned back slightly and showed Martin a calm, friendly smile.

“But ...”, Martin sniffed and seemed to think hard over a spot of flannel between his fingers, ”but, how could you not? You should be mad at falling for stupid tricks, twice. Even after this heck of a week, I … should have been more alert. Even the more naive, stupid halfwit that I am ...” 

“How could I be mad at you, though? It does take much less to trick a sleep deprived, kindhearted mind of an exhausted airline captain alone abroad. That is for sure, I can tell. But seriously, Martin, twice?”

Martin returned his look with disbelieve, waiting for how other words would come out before deciding to feel relieved or depressed. Sherlock crooked a sly smile of his usual own and his eyes gleamed with a smart spark, only a little bit watery at the edges.

“How could I be mad at you with any good cause, little fool? How, when your notoriously bad luck has just proven its absurd inevitability once again, hm? “

He nudged Martin's forehand playfully with his nose and sneaked his hand off the face to the flanks in search for ticklish spots. Martin squeaked under his breath and squirmed a bit. He steadied Sherlock´s hand on his side and looked up seriously.

“Do you really mean that? Because if you are mocking me or … or just pity me …”

His mouth was a thin line again and it trembled in possible fortune of another fit of hysteric cries. Sherlock's face became serious, but nevertheless failing to be gentle. 

“No, brother dearest, I am anything but mad … at least not at you, mind that. Never mind your first encounter, but I am certainly sure this is nothing but your misjudgment. And even if you could have done something to avoid this ...”, Sherlock lowered his head and lent his forehead lightly against Martin's. Martin smiled weakly. He seemed assured and relieved, but he was still crying big, silent tears, too.

“Thank you … thank you”, he whispered.

“Well, thank me later, because there are things to be done, dear brother, I'm afraid …”

Sherlock straightened himself into action again. He checked Martin all over and the younger man looked very much like a small boy that broke his mother´s most beloved item, John mused. If asked, the good ex-army doctor had to admit, that he was rather touched by this private exchange of brotherly comfort and reassurance, never mind the reason of it. He may also admit, that age and raising children might have made him a little sentimental, but only just a tiny bit. Because, honestly, who could stay completely cold and unaffected there and then? John cleared his throat pointedly.

“Now, if you don't mind, would someone maybe explain what …?”

“Not now, John. I need you to make an errand for me and a phone-call as well. Phoning first, please!”, he ordered courtly and lifted Martin to stand up.

“Well, at least you have not yet lost your benevolent charm and remaining manners, my dear husband”, John huffed while getting to his feed. He took everything back into the small bathroom and disposed the used items in a special container.

“Where do you want me to got? And who am I gonna call?”, he shouted in the direction of the sitting room while he tidied up. The answer came by return when Sherlock shuffled after him with a still sniffing Martin in tow.

“Seriously, John, it's utterly obvious … Oh, and come here, Martin.”

He gave his brother another hasty peg on the forehead and started to undress him.

“You will call Douglas, of course. And after that, you will fetch some things we will need immediately.”

John went into the corridor and checked his jacket for phone and wallet before he turned back into the small room.

“Right, what should I tell Douglas?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently while he disposed the stained clothes into one of the many sterile plastic bags, he had retrieved somewhere, because they seemed to secretly litter the whole building.

“Tell him that Martin is in a serious state, that he needs his assistance and that his presence is expected here as soon as possible.”

“Alright”, John muttered during taking on his shoes.

“That will not help to keep anyone calm, but nevertheless … Where am I going for the shopping then? And what are you doing anyway?”

Sherlock fetched another, smaller kit out of the medicine chest. He placed it on the sink, took on a pair of sterile gloves and opened the box carefully. Martin stood next to him, dressed in only his pants, observing the movements around him and shivering lightly.

“I am sorry, Martin, but we will need to take some samples ...”

“Of course, I … know. It's okay, I think.”

“Alright, we start with your hands first. John?”

The doctor turned to Sherlock.

“You will go straight to the chemists, the good one, mind you. I will send you a list while you are on your way. And I will do this”, he placed the first sample into a petri-dish and passed Martin an oral swap for the next one.

“When I am sure, everything is collected and cataloged, excuse my choice of words, Martin, we will clean up thoroughly and wait for your return”. 

Martin poked the swab around in his mouth absently, the drugs seemed to kick in finally. He gave it back to Sherlock who sealed it into another small evidence bag which he stowed away safely.

“Bend your head a bit, please”, he addressed Martin and faced him with a small scissor. The younger man obeyed slowly and looked up through watery eyelashes.

“And John …?”, Sherlock spoke when he took a small strand of hair at the middle of Martin´s tuft between his left thump and index finger.

“Yeah?”, John stood still and looked at his husband.

“Do hurry, will you? The sooner you are back, the better.”

Sherlock clipped the strand off swiftly and placed the sample carefully into yet another small bag. John swallowed and nodded tightly, then he left the brothers and made his way into the city.

“Thank you”, Sherlock whispered to John's absent presence and focused on his brother completely.


	4. Of Wars and Warriors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John checks into action and some restrospection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, because I can, ta!

John sometimes thought, he was still a serving soldier, though it seemed otherwise. After The Work was led to its final sleep in favor of some kind of domesticity, their very own Family Task, as Sherlock liked to call it, the original adventures and dangers of his blog had become rare. He was not so sure about this at first, unlike his husband and feared that routine and daily repetition would become a boring burden. But as wrong as he was proven, he found himself welcoming a new adventure with his brilliant scientist and their children, a perfect home and a lot of challenging tasks. He grew rather fond of it and would never change it to something other again. 

Sure they both sometimes mourned a bit after the thrill of chasing criminals and the rush of adrenalin before the final clue to solve a case, when they shared a docile moment together. But John secretly caught himself asking privately, how he could miss this time of their lives when it had led them to their future happening right there and then? He even found himself in a minor internal debate during quiet hours. Because he clearly missed the kick and the danger The Work had contained. But he could not point out, why he was so glad it was over and not going to awake somewhere along the way.

It must have been something to do with being away from combat and battle for a long time, he mused. And while he was on his way into the city he stopped at a crossroad and turned his view up into the sky. Grew walls of clouds covered the firmament and a steady wind blew through the streets and trees. When a black Sedan turned slowly around the far corner of the block, it stroke him with understanding. It where moments like these that made him prefer the seemingly tiresome daily routine to the excitement of challenging adventures.

When the elegant car came to a stop next to him, he was reminded of the signs of doom he used to see in war before it stroke with its inexorable force. A bad fortune that taught him about the weakness of man when it would become manifested in restless fear, searing pain and crippling helplessness. He realized, what he had forgotten of The Work and what was replaced without great loss by another, seemingly regular and ordinary adventure. He was to fulfilled with his tasks and riddled with nostalgia to see what he definitely didn’t miss about The Work. The fear, the panic, the scaring situations they had been in in which he thought they would die. Being unable to save someone, or Sherlock or even himself. The sheer burden of something tremendous that was beyond him and that might just be a terrible, unavoidable bane. He became aware of that right there and then when he found himself and his family in actual urgency. And while his husband slipped into the master sleuth his own instincts kicked right in and made him do what he thought a good army-doctor might do when faced with his duty. And though this situation might just be a minor incident he was reminded of the terror he was so much aware of once and which he had unconsciously exchanged with their own definition of normality. It shook him with gratitude and he could literally hear Sherlock's exclamation of him being an idiot. 

Suddenly a door of the car opened and he had to take one step back. The driver leaned back and addressed John.

“The chemist closes in half an hour. You may favor a service”.

“Well, hello to you, too”, John replied and took a seat in the back. 

“You are not going to fill me in with some mundane casualties about what the heck is going on, won't you?”, he mocked with a raised eyebrow.

“No”, the driver answered and returned back to driving. John snorted and looked out of the tinted windows. His own phone buzzed in his pocket and took him back into reality.

´Right, time for action, questions later´, he reminded himself, straightened his back and opened the text with the list of items, his husband seemed to find essential in this exciting and familiar mad situation.


	5. A Small Heart To Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas joins the play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, I am afraid.

John checked the list, twice, because seriously, even after years of living with Sherlock, he was not always sure if his mad scientist was sure what he was doing. But okay, if he was told so, he would be a good lad and do what the great Sherlock Holmes found necessary. And it could be much worse, certainly.

Another text appeared on the screen: ´And do not forget to call Douglas! -SH´

John struggled to search the contacts for the number, in fact very aware that he was overdue. The call was answered immediately.

“Hello, this is Douglas Richardson”, the rich voice of the older man greeted him.

“Hello Douglas, good to hear you, it's John …”

“Ah, I see, hello there, John. As delighted and surprised I am to chat with you, maybe you are able to answer a quick question first of all?”

John could hear that the copilot seemed to be in a car as well, not driving it himself, also as well. And he thought his voice sounded slightly restrained and irritated.

“Uh, well, ask straight away.”

“Well”, there was a small interruption and a short interaction was held. John knew that female voice in the background promptly.

“Well, though charmingly lovely smart-phone wielding female company is a pleasure for my weary soul, I am not entirely sure if I will get used to find myself lured from an airport into a posh limousine and on the way to … hang on ... Yes, northern London.” 

Definitely irritated, but still composed and witty as hell, John mused and he could not suppress a grin at the still playfully dramatic speech he received.

“But I am entirely sure that I will neither get used nor at ease with given homoeopathic doses of information about the unmentionable fate of my captain.”

The female voice seemed to try to interrupt him, but Douglas cut her off politely but with undeniable force.

“So, as far as I can tell, Mr. Holmes the older has found a pretty nice reason to send out his very own secret service and I get it that Martin is involved somehow. But I really hope, that I am right to assume, that my husband is just in desperate need of my wonderful presence and is not in fact mysteriously missing overseas or going to die a miserable death while a withdrawn maiden deems it necessary to remind me that ´everything is in order, sir´ while we have a refreshingly nice ride free of traffic at a Friday afternoon near London.”

“Ah, well, ahem …”, John cleared his throat, because howling with laughter was absolutely ´very not good, Sherlock´ thing now.

“You're right, Martin needs you here in London. He is at ours now, with Sherlock actually. He is not in mortal danger in fact, not in the least, but he is … well, in some kind of a state, so to say, And I take it Mycroft ...”

“... took care of my departure in his usual conjuring manner? Yes, it seems so.”

Douglas sighed heavily. John couldn't help but chuckle silently by the words of the older pilot, who just tsked. John thought he could sense him shaking his head in disbelieve through the line. 

“All right, at least Martin is in good care. Thought as much with everyone being jolly relaxed and all. I have not seen him return from his scheduled flight, just checked into the airport when my special escort appeared.”

“Yes, for some reason he showed up at Bakers Alley just in his uniform. Sherlock is taking care of him and I'm … out for shopping actually.”

“What happened, John?”

This time it was John´s turn to sigh and he rubbed his forehead with his palm. Suddenly the car came to a stop and he mentioned the chemists on the other side of the road.

“I have no idea, Douglas, not the slightest. But Anthea is right, everything is fine so far, do not be too concerned. Listen, I have to go now, we´ll meet in Bakers Alley soon, yeah?”, John hurried out of the car to the entrance of the store.

“I am sorry, Douglas, I would tell you more if I could.” John sighed and went to the aisles in mind.

“How I like to have a nice little mystery”, Douglas answered with certain annoyance and cleared his throat.

“Ok, not your fault, of course. Thank you very much, John, both of you … Oh, just for the avoidance of doubt, not you, Anthea-chan, mind you!”

John chuckled when the call ended and browsed his messages for the list Sherlock had sent him while searching for the right aisles.


	6. Limitation of Defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some introspective and lots of fluff.

Sometimes John entertained the thought, that he would have also made a good figure as a barber, or even a cosmetician instead of a medical soldier. He clearly remembered nice bonding evenings with his girlfriends and even his buddies doing their haircut. His mother had always cared for her children's hair herself and when he adopted her habit as a young man it was out of question for him to own some good scissors and a special comb and a water sprayer and a good hair dryer. Hell, he even owned a professional brush, a present from his army-buddies for mocking him. Of course he had acted as the tough soldier and mocked right back, but he secretly adored the gesture and loved this brush a lot, for the memories it involved with his former comrades.

So there could be said that John Hamish Watson praised himself of the ability to give a decent haircut, no matter if he was confronted with light strands, wild curls or even extravagant colouring. He had learned a lot about cutting techniques, he knew how to tread different kind of hair, he was familiar with difficulties and haircare, but colouring hair was one of his most famous enjoyments. It surprised him every time just how much fun he had while dying and colouring hair. Maybe it should be some kind of embarrassing, but he just enjoyed doing hairjobs, that was all of it.

And good on him for this, because during his time together with Sherlock an always available barber was more than once desperately needed. Of course there have been the undercover investigations for which Sherlock needed disguise. But there have also been countless “accidents” in which the detective was so very relieved, that his beloved blogger was able to help out with his hairstyling skills. For one thing it was calming and securing to be finally in good care after a exhausting case, Sherlock was secretly thankful for those moments of peace and quiet under the hands of his husbands. But it also gave John the resolutely and ever so often much needed chance to have his tantrums about danger and risks on the sleuth while said one was unable to get away from him. Having Sherlock sitting sulkily in the kitchen covered with a big old towel and John fixing his hair with a steady stream of tirades was therefore a very regular sign in Bakerstreet as well as Bakers Alley. But in the end everyone and everything was back to normal when John had finished Sherlock´s hair. The younger man was satisfied again with his transport, John had his fun and a good scolding and both where just glad to be together in the end, in each others arms and without any serious harm.

So it was no surprise to find John in a rather a good mood at this particular irregular evening at Bakers Alley, though the circumstances bode otherwise. He just couldn't help to hum to himself while he prepared his tools, fetched his apron, told Sherlock to collect some old towels and mixed several dishes of colouring. 

He had not been very surprised for that reason at all when he first read the list Sherlock had sent him, but the sheer amount of items was a bit impressive. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock thought this to be done first of all in this urgent situation. Well, when he thought about it a bit, it was not so very impressive after all. Because when his lunatic husband was once again in need of his original hair colour, it was a pressing matter and there used to be three or maybe four different shades of colouring products, though there was seldom the need of bleaching. But Martin´s remarkable auburn tuft was in serious need of exactly that to get rid of the cheap stuff that clung to his strands. And of course it was a very urgent matter for Sherlock. 

Furthermore John had to prepare no less than six different shades of red, brown and even yellow and green to satisfy Sherlock´s request of Martin´s very own hair pigment dispersion. Not to mention the revolting broth of bleaching. But while Sherlock deemed it necessary to behave stroppy and fidgety under John´s care, Martin sat in the kitchen with an impressive amount of patience and a visible hint of resolved dignity. John checked the outcome of the bleaching after 30 minutes and Martin did not so much as twitch at the poking to his surely itching head. He merely squeezed his eyes shut tightly, which produced his very own crinkled nose, both Sherlock and John adored the young man for. 

“Well, this should be over in 10 minutes. You alright down there?”

Martin hummed his acceptance and took another drag from the fag Sherlock had transferred to him. Well, John thought to himself, at least he is calm and more relaxed, that´s good. He sighed with relief and watched his husband fiddling with cigarette paper and filter tips at their table. Although …

“Sherlock, where did you get the pot?”

“Hm?”, of course the infuriating madman was the very picture of ingenuous ignorance.

“Sherlock …”, John placed himself next to his husband as imposing as one ex-army doctor could get in his slippers and with a screamingly bright-colored apron, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh, that, no big business. And it's not for me, of course, but I knew it would help Martin.” Sherlock chattered with a voice of no importance. John growled at him and was rewarded with sweet puppy eyes of innocence. And a masterly built blunt. He growled once again and fetched his gloves.

“I am not so sure that I like your not-big-business. After all Martin seems to be drugged already and I gave him a sedative.” He checked the bleaching once again.

“It is alright, John. I am sorry I asked Sherlock of all for it. I do apologize for that. But if you don't mind terribly … I'll never use it again here.”

“Well”, John decided to wait another five minutes.

“Sorry, Martin, it's none of my business how you ruin your health, although I would advise you not to smoke that. But I was just serious with Sherlock. I had enough trouble with his druggie-mates hovering around Bakerstreet and leaving their junk everywhere. And I have no need for that here, especially not in this neighbourhood, mind you.” He glared at Sherlock, who gasped comically, but composed himself quickly with his usual know-it-all face.

“You would be surprised who …”

“Ah, ah, ah … I do not want to hear any of that, thank you very much. Keep your secret and dare you if I find any of that stuff around here. By the way, nice try, I got rid of your Secret Supply last week. Where did you get the tobacco, hm? Must be much more difficult for you than the weed, hu?”

Sherlock busied himself with the papers and tips again, muttering at John.

“I knew you found it, foolish of me to think it was safe now … And yes, getting cigarettes or even tobacco in a reasonable amount of time in this area has become rather … impossible lately. No thanks to you, I assume?”

Sherlock was never one to receive a good pun without a reply. John grinned smugly at himself.

“Yeah, well done me, I think”

“It was mine”, Martin intervened meekly, “I had some cigarettes left in my uniform”.

“And I hope you counted them, because he won't get any of them, granted. By the way, we can rinse your hair out. Bathroom now, please.”

“Oh John, this is just ridiculous. But there, if you must behave so childish, there where 15 left and I just used five of them for Martin.”

Sherlock huffed theatrically, crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin to look down at John smugly. But John's reply was firm and swift and he made a point at waving the bleaching stained brush under Sherlock's nose.

“You, my dear man, promised me, there where no cigarettes in this house and you tried to trick me with your last spot. So no treat today, no smoking, serves you right, ta!”

He left his fuming husband with that and turned back to clean the dish off the bleaching.

“So, you still do smoke, Sherlock?”, Martin knelled over the tub and rinsed his head. “I thought, it is pathetic and all”.

“Yes, and that is why I have managed to find me a petty doctor who treats me like the addict I used to be.” Sherlock glared at John, but just mockingly, because the older man smiled at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, there really is no need to feel all smug about that, John. But … yes, it is unbecoming, and disgusting and it smells awful … and those ghastly nicotine patches are bloody itchy, it's no fun at all. It even distracts me from thinking.” 

Martin chuckled under the spray of water and both John and Sherlock mentioned with relief, that their display of bantering calmed the young Captain back to himself. John went over to Martin and helped him to wash off the product. When they where ready John left back into the kitchen. Sherlock wrapped a fluffy towel around his brother's head and rubbed him with playful vigour. After some struggling and teasing and giggling he released a panting, but smiling Martin from the towel. Both men looked at each other and Sherlock was pleased to find the other one in much less distress. Martin radiated some of his usual joy again, so Sherlock smiled back at him. They hugged each other tightly and rested in the security of each other.

“Thank you, really. Thank you so much for always being there for me.”

Sherlock felt some kind of pang in his chest, but it vanished immediately and left him with the warmth of the huge amount of affection he held for his younger brother.

“Hush, little fool”, he pecked Martin´s forehead gently, he was crying again. Sherlock looked at the other and stroked the tears from his cheeks.

“There, none of that. Let's find John and get the ginger mop back as soon as possible. Come on!”

When they returned back into the kitchen, Sherlock dragging Martin at one hand and Martin wiping his face with the too long arm of Sherlock´s borrowed jumper, John was just ready with the last product for the dying.

“Are you alright?”, he left the items on the table, went to Martin and looked at him worried.

“No … yes, of course, I … I'm okay, just … weepy, that's all.” He smiled a watery smile at the doctor. 

And John couldn't help it but smile broadly and embrace the man with a bone crushing hug. Martin gasped with surprise and found himself in the strong hold of the even smaller man, tight in a sturdy and solid embrace. He knew exactly what Sherlock found so grounding in John and he just leaned into him enjoying the warmth and comfort. John loosened his grip and held Martin at arm´s length to smile at him broadly. Martin blinked and smiled back.

“There, see? That's much better!”, Martin blushed and looked down.

“Now, let's see after your hairdo. And, by the way, if someone would be so kind now to let me into the smaller details of …”

He was interrupted by the doorbell.

“Well, my dear John”, Sherlock chimed nonchalantly while shuffling to the front door. “It seems, more patience is advised”.


	7. Behold the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stress and sorrow and finally fluff again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last one at this time, the story is nothing but at end, but the author choses to post et gusto, ta!

If Douglas Richardson was anything but a First Officer, or a friend, or a father or even a brother, he definitely was authentic. And he used to be rather sultry. One should not think that he wasn't full of spirits still, that would be a grave mistake. If there is a truth to the line that age mellows sharp edges of the personality, that would be more adequate concerning Douglas Richardson. Getting older, fathering children and a very intense lesson about oneself while dealing with the destructive addiction of alcohol had their affects on the older pilot doubtless. So at the early years of fifty one could find Douglas Richardson in a regular state of superior consideration and assertiveness, always combined with slightly bemusement of the world and never lost for snarky interjections. Martin was the one who initially referred to Douglas as the mighty sky-god, long before their mutual engagement. And privately Douglas wondered why he didn't come up with the term himself in the first place, because he lounged into the stereotype like a very pleased pot bellied Buddha. 

And that might describe the picture of him very well, a lucky lad, a perfectly satisfied old sky-god, always in advance even of the most dodgy problems and glad for the fact, that god does lovely things just for the pleasure of Douglas Richardson.

But nobody should be fooled by the smooth talking pilot who always seemed just a little bit bored by his mundane surroundings. He may have gotten slightly soft around the middle, with greying hair and the undeniable signs of age on his skin. But he was still a big guy with broad shoulders, large hands and the small benefit of flying planes since decades causing very alert, fast senses and reactions. And though he might try to drop a stone sometime in the foreseeable future, his weight was not one of his handicaps when clever words changed into fistful arguments. Not only smudgy ex-boyfriends of his daughters should be advised not to mess around with this daddy, but also cocky ex-consulting detectives as well.

So when Sherlock finally managed to open the front door to meet the older man in his usual demeanour, he had to reconsider his plan of action and his choice of words for the greeting in particular. This Douglas Richardson was definitely not pleased and most especially not amused but even more ready to launch at the next subject daring to irritate him, if not just with some rather rude comments. And even Sherlock had learned enough during his live to finally obey some sort of decency in sometimes only shutting his insolent mouth, most notably when his ex-army doctor wasn't around to spare his elegant nose just another well owned punch (and even that didn't save him from furious hands, when the good doctor deemed it necessary to have his infuriating sleuth getting some lessons for some of his more impossible antics, mind that). That is to say, Sherlock Holmes was still the last one to save his butt by just shutting the fuck up, but the triumph of a brilliant remark was ever so elusive compared to stitching and patching his transport up again afterwards by a grumpy medical husband. 

So Sherlock made a neutral face and stood at the front door, holding it open and leaving enough space to let the agitated pilot rush into the corridor if he would chose so without leaving any collateral damage at the interior or the former sleuth even.

Douglas glared at the younger man, just for good measure, it seemed. Then he took a deep breath and got into the house. Sherlock locked the door silently and studied the new visitor's movements suspiciously.

“Help me out of my coat”, Douglas placed his travelling bag near the umbrella stand and his hat on the wardrobe. Sherlock swiftly lifted the heavy coat off and placed it on a hanger before he made room for it on the rack. He was barely facing the older man again when a uniform jacket was carelessly thrown at him, or more likely in his face. He struggled with the rigid garment and just plugged it on a hook with a huff. Then he followed Douglas immediately.

Said man had entered the nearby kitchen first, obviously searching for his husband. 

“You may find Martin in the sitting room, I might inform you.”

Sherlock sneaked to the window, still having in mind not be near the possible flight corridor of the fuming man. Douglas spun around and huffed at him.

“Very well!”, he rushed past Sherlock to the sitting room, the younger man right on his heels.

“You may chose to calm down before …”

Sherlock was stopped in his tracks abruptly by a commandingly pointed finger dangerously close to his face.

“You tell me to calm down, yeah? What do you think I am doing?”

“Well …”, Sherlock swallowed gravely, counting down the time since his last serious encounter with a good blow.

“YOU tell ME to calm down after I was dragged from an airfield like an international terrorist! YOU tell ME to calm down when I was forced into a strange car for hours and having three blokes watching me piss like an abductee! And YOU tell ME to calm down when nobody tells me anything except that my Captain is 'contained in a serious matter'! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! YOU don't tell ME what I do! GET OUT OF MY WAY!”

“Very well”, though he wasn't in anyone’s way right there, Sherlock mused but still miraculously succeeded keeping his mouth shut.

Douglas turned around and waltzed into the sitting room. When he vanished trough the door frame Sherlock thought it safe to follow him, but with a moderate pace, just to be sure.

He found his husband stoically standing in the middle of the room facing the taller pilot like there where not at least 30 centimetres difference in height and about 30 kilos between them. He glared seriously at the older man with folded arms in front of his chest who glared right back unaffectedly, slightly bend down with his hands placed at his hips.

'Funny somehow', Sherlock thought to himself while he silently approached his brother on the far end of the couch. 'Almost like those stupid movies, but even less … amusing'. He sat down next to Martin and closed his arms around him. The calm was lost once more, of course he had overheard Douglas´ arrival and was now sobbing violently again.

Douglas gritted his teeth and spoke to John with a warning voice.

“John, get out of my way”, he glared at the smaller man.

“No, Douglas”, John stood with all the force of his military posture at his spot, like a hindrance. Douglas laughed flatly and shook his head.

“This is ridiculous, let me through, I want to talk with Martin.”

John lifted one eyebrow and grinned wearily.

“Yes, this is ridiculous. And no, you won't talk to him, not with your attitude. I will not allow this behaviour in my house, thank you very much!”, he bent his head and looked at the older man leaving no doubt of his words. Douglas huffed and rubbed one hand over his eyes in tired irritation.

“Look, John, I can see what you two -he gestured between John and Sherlock- find so refreshing about mysteries and unknown dangers, I really do. But for my part I am much to old for this wretch and I certainly had enough drama in my life so far and I am really, REALLY sick of people who hide things for sports and fancy playing with my patients like I was an idiot.”

He turned his back to John and walked a slow, quiet circle in front of the observing doctor. He finally met his look again and John mentioned, he just looked very, very tired and sad and like an old man he seemed to feel like in that moment.

“Seriously, John, I do apologize for my behaviour, but please, let me trough to Martin.”

John swallowed back the last remains of his initial anger and nodded his agreement. 

“Thank you”, the older man walked straight to the couple at the couch and John followed him slowly.

Martin was still crying in hysterics and Sherlock hugged him tight, though he sent a daring look at the approaching pilot. Douglas' arrival made Martin's distress even worse.

“Please, Douglas, no … don't”, he flinched away from his hand and buried his face into his brother's neck.

“Martin, please, it is all fine, I am here now. Please don't hide yourself.”

Douglas tried to calm the younger man with a deep smoothing tone and knelled down at his feet. When he touched Martin's feet carefully, they jerked away from him abruptly.

“No, don't … I … you … please … don't …”, his sobbing was heartbreaking, Douglas thought hard about his next move and John considered about fetching his medical supplies again. Sherlock hushed his brother and rubbed his hands over the younger man.

“There there, little fool, it is all right now. See? Douglas is here and John, we are all here, ok? I am very sure Douglas will not be mad at you.” 

Martin sniffed and cleared his nose in yet another towel that Sherlock had fetched sometime earlier.

“Yes, yes he will”, the young pilot prompted with unexpected surety.

“Mad? Why …”, Douglas took a deep breath to calm his suddenly awakening anger down again. 

“Why should I be mad at you, Martin? Are you in trouble? Did you cause any trouble? Surely you haven't been in a fight, have you?”, he finally got his hands on Martin's thighs and rubbed over them leaning some of his weight in lightly.

“What? Me fighting? Douglas … NO! Of course not””, Martin looked at his First Officer at last, if only to gape at him with bewilderment, but it helped everyone to feel some relief. Douglas smiled.

“Well, that's good, isn't it? Though I would be very impressed if sir favoured a nice brawl latterly”, he squeezed Martin's thigh mockingly. Martin huffed indignant, but showed a small smile himself. He bent his head down and looked at the towel in his hands, big tears still rolling down his face.

“I'm glad to see that I still now how to smooth down sir's distress”, he grasped Martin around the waist and shoved him gently off Sherlock's lap.

“Don't tease me, this is not funny!”, Martin pouted and sniffed a little bit while he parted his legs nonetheless to give Douglas more space near him.

“How could I dare to tease sir? Especially when I plan to do this …”, he embraced the smaller man in a strong hold and Martin all but launched into him. Douglas nuzzled his temple and covered his face in soft, small kisses while he stroked his back. Martin made a very silent noise and huddled against the tall man, clearly enjoying the physical contact.

Meanwhile Sherlock had left the scene almost unnoticed, at least to John who flinched a bit in surprise when he felt strong hands embrace him from behind. 

“There, that's better”, Sherlock muttered and held his husband in his arms.

“Time to get back to normal”, he started to move away, doing whatever he thought of, but John got hold of his hands.

“You, my dear man, are going anyway, not before you finally explain, what's going on here”. He glared at the stupefying sleuth who responded with an impression of disbelieve.

“Seriously, John, isn't it obvious?”

“No, it's not”, Douglas noted vividly, “especially this!”

He twirled one of Martin's nearly white curls between two fingers to inspect them curiously. The smaller man looked up at him through heavy, wet eyelashes with his head bent down, ready to cry again.

“Exactly! And nobody will go anywhere before we know for sure”, John chimed and nudged Sherlock in the general direction of the kitchen. They left the two pilots alone in the sitting room to have a little moment for themselves. 

“I need to prepare the colouring again and you, my dear husband, are pretending to be an amiable host with making tea and offering your self-made apple-syrup and all. Off you go!”

“Fine”, Sherlock huffed and shuffled into the kitchen.

“But I seriously hope that there will be a treat for me after all!”


	8. Do not prosecute the Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny enough I seemed to lie yesterday, have fun.

“Hello Mycroft, how unexpected to see you”, John greets the older man while he fetched together all prepared items. Sherlock had stiffly returned to arranging his dinner tray. Mycroft witnessed the awkward display of disinterest with mild amusement, still in his favoured armour of superiority. He placed his umbrella at the near corner of the kitchen table, the agreed sign for his team for everything is in order. After this he took his time to get the gloves off his hands and placed them casually inside his coat. He brushed a hard edge in one of the pockets with his wrist and let a wiry smile shown on his face.

“Yes, my dear John”, he aimed for the most smeary tone he could achieve and smiled inwardly when John got slightly irritated at this attitude.

“If you are concerned for the well-being for our youngest, you may find him in the sitting room. Oh and you will also find his rather displeased husband nearby. Yours personal assistant's usual charm seems lagging, one might think”, Sherlock addressed him.

Mycroft sighed because, well, this was something he had to deal first things of all. A profound apology would cause no mentionable harm to anyone, least of all him. But an angered antagonist like Douglas Richardson sheltering Martin from him was neither acceptable nor his intention in general.

“Well,” he aimed for some kind of indifference, “of course my personal presence isn't always available if there is the need for skilful interference, I am afraid. Anyway...”, he took off his coat with an elegant motion, placed it on the nearest chair-back and secretly retrieved his main reason to be in Bakers Alley. He walked slowly towards Sherlock, who frowned at the dinner tray.

“... before I join into the sitting room, I feel free to convey what you requested, my pleasure, dearest brother”, he held out a manila folder for Sherlock to take. Sherlock turned towards him, eyes glued on the files. He took it and looked at Mycroft. The older one carried a blank impression and suddenly Sherlock's disapproving face went blank as well. He held the folder in front of his chest, tilted his head lightly and nodded once at his brother. With a stern nod as reply Mycroft made his point, but acknowledged the unspoken gratitude with contentment.

“Wait, does that mean you knew Mycroft was in on this?”, John abandoned his supplies once more and moved to stay between the two men, looking slightly more irritated. 

“Of course I knew, John. It was Mycroft who got news about Martin's condition in the first place and naturally he informed me.” Sherlock turned over the files casually.

“And I took the liberty to take matters in hand, mind you”, Mycroft stated while he lingered around Sherlock looking at the files over his shoulder.

“Oh no, you two don't”, John cried and threw his hands in the air which caused the other two men to look at him.  
“This is not only you (he pointed at a confused Sherlock), no, but your great show as well (he pointed at Mycroft who had only lifted one eyebrow at the sudden outburst)”. 

He was fuming and glared at both, but he managed to keep his voice down, down to a dangerous growl.

“Sherlock, I told you, if this is just a farce …”

“No, it's not, it really is not!”, Sherlock interrupted outraged.

“Then why didn't you tell me what's happening right at the very beginning, hu?”, John stood with crossed arms in front of Sherlock demanding immediate answers.

“For heavens sake, if this is so important to you, I wasn't aware of anything just like you until I got my phone to send you the list for the chemists. Not before that did I mention the messages and missed calls of him (he pointed at Mycroft who rewarded him with the same bored lifted eyebrow). And by the way, I was lightly occupied with checking Martin over, that's why!”

“Christ, Sherlock, there surely was time enough to give me a hint or something!”

“There where other important matters of priority to take care of!”

“Is that so? And when are we mere mortals blessed to be the 'important matters of priority' to tell what the fuck is going on here?”

“Ah, well”, Mycroft just strolled between the two men, who hissed at each other, their faces only inches apart. He went nonchalantly in the direction of the sitting room.

“As … purifying a little domestic may be, let us take this topic in hand immediately. Should be a shame to waist any more time, I might assume”, and he was gone. Both Sherlock and John watched the leaving of the the diplomat, at least finished with their argument for now. Sherlock huffed.

“This utterly, sleazy, posh smart-ass of a …”

“Sherlock …”, John said with a weary voice and he rubbed his hands over his face. The taller man took them and squeezed with both of his.

“Oh, seriously John, I just tried …”

“Hush, it's alright, it's all fine, okay?”, John squeezed reassuringly.

“Let's just get to our pilots as well.”


End file.
